The Pleasure Palace by Yodfat Manjourides A Thesis submitted to the Graduate School-Newark Rutgers, The State University of New Jersey in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Rutgers University – Newark MFA Program Written under the direction of Akhil Sharma And approved by Jayne Anne Phillips _________________________________________ _________________________________________ Newark, New Jersey May 2018 ©2018 Yodfat Manjourides ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Abstract The following thesis is a short story collection that delves into the lives and experiences of people living by, passing through, and working at an adult shop in Hell’s Kitchen, circa 2005. i Acknowledgments I want to thank my wonderful and incomparable workshop instructors, Jayne Anne Phillips and Alice Elliott Dark, for their unparalleled guidance and support. I would also like to thank Brenda Shaughnessy and Rigoberto González for their kindness and perpetual positivity, and the one and only Goddess Hartland. You’re simply the best, Melissa. I would especially like to thank my thesis advisor, Akhil Sharma, for his no-holds-barred honesty and humor, for his witty, kind advice, for putting up with my overall, often gross, nonsense, and for making me a better writer. You’re fucking fantastic. Thank you to my marvelous Rutgers-Newark MFA comrades in arms for making these past two years so incredible, hilarious, weird, and unforgettable. This has been one wild fucking journey, and no other group of beautiful freaks will ever rival our drunken nights, terrible imitations of one another, expertise at charades, inappropriate parties, annoying habit of hitting “Reply All” on every goddamn email chain, bumping and grinding, pot luck dinners, nightly rides on the PATH train, and genuine emotional support. I love you all. Now, let’s get wasted. A special shout out to Shara Davis, Sam Hutchings, and Maia Morgan. I love you guys. “Richard” originally appeared in Narrative magazine. ii Contents The Following Is a List of People // 1 Art House Goon // 14 Mopped // 32 Snappy // 47 Early Bird Special // 60 Richard // 83 iii For Scott, George, Jose, Matt, Vadin, Keith, Mizra, and Pish. My porn family. My boys. Love you, pervs. iv 1 The Following Is a List of People 8:20 a.m. The early birds. They watch from the door, hands folded, impatient. They stare as we ready the store, unnerved by the passersby; they look to the concrete, pretend to shake out a pebble from their shoe. They look down the stairs, their hands serving as visors; they cling to the glass and search for our shadows. Their frown lines retreat, relieved when they see us. They follow our movements, heads bobbing up and down, side to side, attempting to pinpoint our exact location. They can’t stand our absence, the void left behind as we prep the rest of the store. They hate waiting, feeling judged by those around them headed to work. They focus their glares on the lights we switch on, licking dry lips in anticipation. They point to their watches and we nod, let in the mopper and give him his stack. Then head to our stations—make sure all is in place. They knock on the door and plead with their eyes. They nod when we mime Just a few moments more. The door is unlocked, they enter with caution; they know we’re hungover, our pores reek of booze. They tell us good morning, hang back for a chat. They offer coffee, say that back in the day it cost a nickel. A quarter, if they splurged on a donut. They now brew their own, bring a thermos with them wherever they go. They rifle through rows of adult entertainment. They chatter away, we pretend we’re awake. They head to the bathroom, tell us the person working last time let them in. They blame the plumbing in Hell’s Kitchen for overflowing the toilet. Never wipe their piss off the bowl and the floor. They ask us what’s new, we mistake that for interest. We tell them we’re 2 tired, and they clear their throat. What’s new in the titles? What’s new in porn? We point them to numbers, ascending and large. They take out their glasses, inspect all that’s recent. Our lethargy is catching and they soon yawn, too. They make a decision, hover over us as we match their amateur title to its corresponding number from the rows of plastic bins that line the left wall of the store. We rub our eyes, compose ourselves. We tell them to give us some space, and they put up their arms in surrender. We ring them up and they say they’ll be back soon, maybe even tomorrow. Bright and early, thermos in hand. 11:35 a.m. The magazine dudes. They never need help, always know where to go. They check out the metal racks—rusted and falling apart. They get a good grip on the mag that they want—Swank, SCREW, Barely Legal, Juggs, Penthouse, or Oui— then inspect its protective plastic. They run their fingers along the spine, checking the thickness, then run their palms across the cover, hoping that the pair of triple G tits or the porn star with the shaved pussy or the young girl with pigtails or the legion of naked ladies with pink lip gloss and garter belts will somehow manifest. They have colds or suffer from allergies. We suspect they hoard magazines in their homes, that the dust that’s settled has taken its toll on their lungs. We look for the raggedy cloth tissues they cling to, doing our goddamn best not to stare at the yellow-green stains on the checkerboard pattern. They hold magazines up to the light; maybe the fluorescent will reveal the contents inside, serve as a pornographic X-ray of sorts. They put their ears to the covers, like one does to a seashell, then wait for the tide, for the crotch of their 3 pants to expand and tell them what to buy. They yell out their questions without looking up. Do we have a mag with twins on the cover? Do we still have the Razzle from last November? Might we look in the back for the Christmas edition of Asian Fever? We yell in succession. It’s always a no. They feel superior to those who buy films. They’re old school and refer to porn as erotica. The say the true art of sex lies within still photography; within crisp, clean, numbered pages meant to stick together. They always stick together. 2:46 p.m. The cheap bastards. They never look at us, just head to the back of the store. They scour for hours in bins and on shelves. Today is the day they will find what they want—that ever-elusive, expensive DVD, marked down by mistake, its price tag or sticker slapped on without care. They sift through hundreds of titles, running their fingers along cool, shiny covers. They gather in groups and never approach. Their bodies stiff, but greedy for discounts. We watch them on monitors, wondering when they’ll give up, taking bets as we look at them thinking, hoping to beat the system, calculating risk and reward. They look up and squint, working out how many times they can jerk off to the same title, hoping that this time, just maybe, they can manage to hang in there for more than a week. They wear flip flops and sandals, even in fall. Mosquito bites have devoured their shins, a rash from the homeless guy they sat next to on the subway. They bite their nails, scraping the grime underneath with their teeth, liking that it tastes like curdled milk and nothing. They pick one or three DVDs, depending on the deal, 4 then slowly approach, prolonging their ten-second walk to the register in case they change their minds. When they sigh, we know they’ve conceded to their purchase. They point to the price and demand a discount, refusing to pay the tax. A standoff ensues. It’s their day off; they’ve got nothing to do, so they’re good to just stand there and argue their case. They’re good to try and break us. 4:17 p.m. The couples. They enter giddy and holding hands. This foray into porn is the litmus test for their relationship. They enter hoping a purchase will justify their dating, validate the notion that they’re meant to be. They’ve never felt this way about anyone before, honest. This time it’s different. This time she feels comfortable letting him watch her masturbate with her eyes open; letting him go down on her as she watches a condom-clad Tommy Gunn or Evan Stone or Kurt Lockwood kiss and fuck and lick and stroke a golden-skinned Keylani Lei or Jessica Drake or Stormy Daniels. She thinks about their first time together, the night he treated her to Pad Thai in the Village. She sucked on his thumb for three minutes straight, couldn’t believe how much she liked it. She remembers his face when he came, when he asked if she finished and her lie felt okay. Today is about them both—they’ve earned this. Today, she thinks that she might let go just enough to finally come. The man feigns knowledge, pointing to the glass display cases like he gets why one is next to the other, like he’s deciphered some code that doesn’t exist. He smiles when she blushes, thinks it’s real cute how she’s shy, yet still down for whatever.